


Only Sweeter

by wearemany



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 10:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1222129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearemany/pseuds/wearemany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What kind of band is this," Geno asks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Sweeter

**Author's Note:**

> For Sinsense.
> 
> Really, this could be one in a series of little fics about Geno's adventures in learning English via Top 40 euphemisms. You can safely assume that I know the reference contained in that lyric even if nobody in the story does.

Sid's driving, tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel, and out of his peripheral vision he sees Geno sort of cock his head, looking at the stereo.

"Sid," Geno says, slow, careful like he's not sure he's supposed to ask what he's about to ask, and Sid's been telling him there's seriously nothing he can ask that someone at some point hasn't shoved a mic in Sid's face and asked. "This song," Geno finally continues.

Sid clicks up the volume a few notches. He knows this song, kind of. It's a little heavier than what they usually play on this station but it's good. Energetic. Driven, kind of, with a mean twist. This song sounds like how he feels when they score against the Flyers.

Geno says, "What song is this?" and Sid flips the display on the stereo so it shows the band and title.

"Fall Out Boy," he reads, and he can tell by how Geno squints closer that the lack of vowels in the title is just confusing, not clever, to someone still mastering intermediate language skills. "Thanks for the memories," Sid says, trying to help without helping too obviously.

Geno glances down at his phone like maybe he's just going to Google whatever his next question is, so Sid asks, "What? They’re good, right? You like it?"

Geno holds up a finger and then says, just after the singer does, "'He taste like you only sweeter'?" He laughs a little, rough and low. "What is -- what kind of band is this," Geno asks.

The lyric repeats and, yeah, there's just no chance Geno heard that wrong. "Uh, I don't know," Sid says, laughing a little too.

They're laughing about it. It's cool. He wonders what the band’s like in concert, if it’s all screaming girls and the smell of hairspray or more like sweaty guys in tight t-shirts shoving each other back and forth. Sid’s never gone to a show like that. He can almost picture Geno at one, though, a head taller than everybody like he is in any crowd, slamming around to the heavy beat.

"Sounds kind of --" Geno smiles, then, but it's different, closer to a smirk than a grin, the edge turning up like he's working out a joke and wants to be sure he gets all the words right.

The chorus comes back around and it's -- honestly, yeah, it's kind of gay, the way it's sung, though maybe it's one of those songs where the guy is singing about a girl but from the point of view of a girl, so it's not gay at all. Maybe that’s not even what Geno is asking.

Maybe it doesn't mean anything sexual at all and they've just spent too many years around fucking filthy-minded hockey players who can turn any innocent comment into the dirtiest shit Sid's ever come close to thinking of on his own. He never blushes or gets mad or anything, but he’s not very good at thinking of a quick comeback, so he usually just laughs.

He laughs now and says, "I don't know, man." He’s not sure he can handle driving and having a conversation with Geno about blowjobs so he decides to just stop there.

The radio station screams a blast of static, shouts its tune-in number and moves on to some rap-dance-type song. He doesn't turn it down because there's nothing else to really say.

Geno pokes at his phone and at the next stoplight he shoves it in front of Sid, flicking through a couple of photos, presumably of Fall Out Boy, all draped on each other. Their hair is universally awful. Whatever face he's making causes Geno to snort with laughter. At the next commercial break there’s an ad for Pens tickets and they go back to talking about their next game.

Sid forgets about the whole thing until a couple weeks later, when they're in the car again. Geno has some new sport drink the PR team was handing out from an in-game promotion, and he chokes a little on the first swallow.

“Blech,” he says, wiping his chin, and Sid looks back at the road, turns up the music.

He feels like he’s blushing, which is so stupid because he sees Geno naked almost every day and there’s no way him rubbing his palm over his mouth should be more distracting. “That bad?” he asks, as casually as he can manage.

“Gross,” Geno says, which is his new favorite word for anything he dislikes, expressing everything from mild irritation to utter disdain. “Gatorade best.”

“True,” Sid says, because nobody had to pay him to come to that obvious conclusion.

He reaches behind the driver’s seat, sweeping his hand along the floor, and turns up an unopened bottle of blue Gatorade. It’s lukewarm from sitting in the car but it’s better than _gross_. Geno accepts it with a wide grin and cracks the seal with a decisive, hard twist. His hands are so fucking big, it’s ridiculous.

“Better?” he asks, because staring at Geno’s hands is probably worse for his driving than obsessing over his mouth.

“Yes,” Geno says. He stops himself then, laughs soft, under his breath like he finally worked out a riddle.

Geno puts one arm up, stretching out to rest his hand on the seat behind Sid’s head. He squeezes the back of Sid’s neck, hard the first time, then a gentle, soothing motion as Sid sucks in a hard breath and desperately grasps for basic motor functions. They can’t die now, he doesn’t even know what’s happening.

“What,” he demands finally, turning onto Geno’s street. He’s not sure what he’s asking but he has to say something.

Geno takes another long drink from the bottle, licks his lips. Sid comes to an abrupt stop in the driveway.

“Best,” Geno says, and gently draws his hand down from Sid’s neck and across his throat. “Taste like you, only sweeter.”


End file.
